


It's What's Engraved Upon My Heart

by whisperedstory



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Traits, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Scent Kink, Scenting, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29113509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedstory/pseuds/whisperedstory
Summary: Geralt loves the way Jaskier smells, especially when he smells like the both of them combined. Jaskier's scent soothes the rage and pain he sometimes feels, and he loves breathing him in and letting it comfort him. There's just one problem—he doesn't want Jaskier to know.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 72
Kudos: 745





	It's What's Engraved Upon My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from The Amazing Devil's "Fair".
> 
> Betaed by [dancing_adrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancing_Adrift) <3

The slight chill in the air is a good excuse for Geralt to shift his body closer to Jaskier's, his nose pressing against Jaskier's nape. He keeps his breathing even, doesn't sniff too obviously. Jaskier's scent is strong enough that he doesn't have to—the sweaty, musky scent of sex, Geralt's own scent lingering on him, the soaps and oils Jaskier likes to use, and underneath all that it's all Jaskier: clean and light, a little sweet.

Geralt likes it best when Jaskier smells like this, like both of them. He'll stab himself with his own sword before ever admitting that, though—especially to Jaskier. In fact, he's been trying to hide the whole scenting thing from Jaskier altogether. He's already got enough things that make him different— _inhuman_ —and he isn't convinced that there isn't a point where he's _too different_ , even for Jaskier. The fact that Geralt would like to rub his face in Jaskier's scent and then cover Jaskier with his own might just be the thing to tip him over. So it's only during sex or when they sleep curled together that Geralt allows himself to do this, to bury his face against Jaskier's skin and breathe him in.

After all this time together, Jaskier's scent has become as familiar as his own, and at least to himself Geralt can admit that it's a source of comfort. It soothes the rage and pain he has bottled inside of him, calms him down. Even when they've been on the road for days, when Jaskier starts smelling a little ripe, covered in dirt and sweat that a quick wash in a stream can't erase, Geralt still likes it.

Geralt snuffles quietly against Jaskier's neck and Jaskier sighs and wiggles back against him some more. His hand covers Geralt's arm, squeezes. 

"Sleep," he mumbles, already half-asleep. 

Geralt hums. He stays quiet, unmoving, waiting until Jaskier has drifted off. 

He carefully shifts them then, just a little, so he can press his nose against the crook of Jaskier's neck more comfortably. 

Only then does he fall asleep as well.

  
  
*  
  


Geralt sinks deeper into the hot water and feels some of the stiffness ease out of his shoulders. The bath salts Jaskier tossed into the water rub against his bottom and the soles of his feet, rough and a little sharp, but he doesn't mind. They'll dissolve soon enough and he likes the salty scent; it reminds him of the sea, fresh and natural. 

Geralt sighs and blinks, craning his head back to watch Jaskier fuss around the room. He's lit all the candles and he's currently checking the oils and soaps the inn has provided. His nose wrinkles as he sniffs them.

"These just won't do," he says. "A shame too, because they're free." 

"They better be, considering how much we paid for this room," Geralt grumbles. 

Jaskier gives him a little grin. "I paid, darling, so hush. I like spoiling you," he says. He puts a small bottle down and wipes a strand of hair out of his eyes, a little damp from the steam rising from the bath. "I'll be right back with you. Relax, will you?"

"I am," Geralt says, and Jaskier makes a disgruntled noise.

"Yes, yes, you're marginally less tense than usual. Good job, dear heart," he says and then vanishes behind the partition that separates the tub from the rest of their room. Geralt takes a slow, deep breath, trying to make the tension ease from his muscles. He doesn't want Jaskier to think he doesn't appreciate this.

Jaskier returns moments later with several vials and bars of soap. 

"Where have you been keeping all of those?" Geralt asks, frowning.

Jaskier's eyes widen for a split moment and then he smiles sweetly. "Oh, I don't know. Certainly not in Roach's saddlebags."

"Jaskier." 

"Oh hush, you," Jaskier says. "They take up less space than all your potions and we deserve nice things."

Geralt wants to ask why, but he's had arguments like this with Jaskier countless times and he knows it'll get them nowhere. Geralt doesn't need luxuries, thinks they're a waste of coin more often than not. A normal bar of soap will do just as well as the expensive, scented ones Jaskier likes to buy. Jaskier seems to think that it makes a difference though, that it _improves_ life, and while Geralt thinks that's bullshit, it makes Jaskier happy and he likes Jaskier happy. He might grumble and put up a fuss when Jaskier spends coin on things that aren't necessities, but even he can't deny that they're still nice. Geralt never indulged in these simple luxuries before Jaskier, still isn't sure he should, that he deserves them, but he finds himself enjoying the small comforts Jaskier likes to bring into their lives—the sweet, sticky honey cakes he buys for them, the hot baths when Geralt isn't even dirty, the extra portions of food and the new clothes Jaskier likes to splurge on because _yes Geralt, there comes a time when you've mended a shirt so often it's beyond fixing_.

"Okay, pick an oil first," Jaskier says and pulls the stopper from the first vial. He holds it up to Geralt's nose and Geralt makes a face at the too-sweet aroma that hits him. 

"Hmm, obviously not that one," Jaskier decides and puts the stopper back in before setting the vial aside. Just to be difficult, Geralt makes the same face at the next two vials Jaskier holds out to him too, though they're much more pleasant than the first. The third smells quite nice, actually, the fragrance light and herbal.

"Geralt," Jaskier says with a huff, looking both suspicious and a little dejected, like finding the right oil to pour into Geralt's bath is something important.

The corners of Geralt's lips twitch up, just a little.

"Geralt," Jaskier repeats, this time more offended. "Are you teasing me?"

"Hmm," Geralt hums. "The first one really is bad. Third one wasn't too horrible."

"Well, that's a ringing endorsement, coming from you," Jaskier declares and picks up the third vial again. He pours a bit of the liquid into the steaming water—enough to make the fragrance noticeable, but not overwhelmingly so.

"Okay, soaps next," Jaskier says. "Any preference, dear?"

"Unscented is fine," Geralt says. 

"We're all out."

Geralt squints up at Jaskier. "No, we're not," he says. Jaskier puts a hand on his heart.

"Darling, would I lie to you?"

"I used some last time I bathed."

"Maybe you lost it. Or maybe you're misremembering things; it happens at your age," Jaskier sniffs. "Now. Lavender, rose or orange blossom?"

Geralt grimaces and runs a wet hand over his face, pretending to think about it when really he knows which ones he prefers. Of course he does—the soap Jaskier usually prefers to use on himself, because he likes smelling like Jaskier. "Lavender," he says gruffly.

"Good choice," Jaskier says. "See, who says you have no taste for finer things?"

"You do, all the time."

"Ah, yes," Jaskier says, tone light and teasing, and moves to sit on the small stool behind Geralt. "Get your hair wet for me, dear."

Geralt sinks down in the water dutifully, until he's fully submerged and then sits back up, splashing water over the edge of the tub in the process. 

"Oh, thank you. Really, thank you, dear," Jaskier says, his voice dry. 

Geralt cranes his head around. Jaskier had removed his doublet earlier and now there are several wet spots on his chemise, making the already flimsy material even more see-through. Geralt lets his gaze linger. "Hmm. Welcome."

"Unbelievable," Jaskier says. "Lewd, horny witcher."

Geralt snorts and turns back around. "Wash my hair, bard," he says.

Jaskier sighs loudly, playfully. Geralt lets his eyes slip shut and waits, listening to the sound of Jaskier sliding the soap around his hands before he runs them through his hair. Geralt lets out a quiet groan, leaning back into the touch, those clever fingers rubbing over his scalp and lathering up his hair. 

It feels good, Jaskier's touch sure but gentle, and Geralt has never told him, but he's pretty sure Jaskier knows how much he enjoys this. It's one of the things he likes to indulge him in, letting Jaskier wash him. Most of his indulgences these days are, in some shape or form, related to Jaskier. 

The scent of the lavender soap fills the damp, warm air, mingling with the oil Jaskier poured into the water, and Geralt feels himself relax even more. 

Jaskier spends more time than Geralt knows is necessary soaping up his hair, running his fingers through the slick strands over and over, until it feels more like a head massage. 

When he finally stops, Geralt bites back a disappointed noise.

"Water's going to get cold soon, darling," Jaskier says softly, tone apologetic, as if he can read his mind. He gets up and goes to grab the bucket from next to the tub. 

"Scoot forward, head back," Jaskier directs, dipping the bucket into the water. Geralt complies silently, lets Jaskier pour water over his hair until it runs clear. 

"There you go," Jaskier says. "All clean and fresh and pretty."

Geralt huffs, but he's smiling a little. He allows himself another few moments to linger in the bath while Jaskier putters around, before he heaves himself out of the tub and accepts the cloth Jaskier hands him. 

Jaskier takes his own bath while Geralt dries off and puts on a pair of breeches, making sure his hair isn't dripping wet anymore before he settles into bed or else Jaskier will rant about having to sleep on soaked pillows. Geralt has had to listen to that very rant way too many times and it always ends the same way—with Jaskier huffing and sulking and then using Geralt's chest as a pillow instead. Geralt doesn't mind the last part, but he'd rather avoid the scolding.

Jaskier looks at him with slight exasperation when he comes out of the bath. "Your hair is going to be a mess if you don't at least brush it," he says.

"Hmm."

Jaskier drops the cloth from around his waist carelessly and pulls a fresh pair of breeches out of his pack. Geralt leans back against the headboard, one arm behind his head, and watches unabashedly as Jaskier bends over and pulls undergarments on. 

"Will you let me?" Jaskier asks as he ties his breeches.

"Can I stop you?"

Jaskier bends over again and when he straightens he has his comb in his hand. "You can try," he says. "But we both know you don't want to."

"You know more than I do then," Geralt grumbles. 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Jaskier mutters dismissively, rolling his eyes. "You're old and grumpy and don't like affection or attention. Except that is absolutely not true, so let's stop pretending. Scoot forward and let me tend to you."

Geralt yields to Jaskier's demands, _again_. He wishes he could say he doesn't know why he does it or that he minds doing it, but he knows all too well why he always gives in. Jaskier sits down behind him and starts combing his hair, working out the knots until he can run through the strands smoothly. He doesn't ask before he starts braiding and Geralt doesn't comment, just lets Jaskier finish. When he's done, he presses a warm, dry kiss to Geralt's shoulder, hands resting on Geralt's waist. 

"Bed?" he asks quietly.

"We're already in bed," Geralt replies smartly. Jaskier kisses his shoulder again and Geralt can feel the smile on his lips.

"Sleep," Jaskier corrects. Geralt leans back into Jaskier more comfortably, humming, and Jaskier slips his arms around him. They stay like this for a few moments. It's warm and they both smell like Jaskier's lavender soap and Geralt doesn't remember if he's ever felt so utterly content before he met Jaskier, before he got to have this.

"Come on. Let's lie down," Jaskier finally murmurs, and Geralt tries not to let his reluctance show as they untangle themselves. It's only a matter of moments before they're sliding under the blanket, the candles around the room extinguished, and Jaskier shuffles close to him. He tucks his head under Geralt's chin, making himself smaller as he curls up against Geralt, and Geralt hides his nose in Jaskier's soft, still damp hair. 

The mattress isn't very comfortable, barely a step up from sleeping on the ground, and the blanket is scratchy, but Geralt falls asleep easily all the same, listening to Jaskier's soft, steady breathing, the feeling damp and warm against his collarbone.

  
  
*  
  


"A heat wave! A _heat wave_ , Geralt. We were supposed to be past this unbearable weather," Jaskier says, waving his hands around wildly.

"It'll cool down tonight," Geralt says.

"Yes. Yes, it will, no doubt. I will feel chilly tonight when it gets freezing cold, yet still too hot until then," Jaskier rants. He pops open another button on his chemise, leaving the collar gaping wide open, his doublet long discarded. There's a fine sheen of sweat on the skin of his neck and Geralt can smell him even from several feet away, Jaskier's natural scent and the smell of his soaps and oils mingling with salty sweat, the heat making it even more potent.

He thinks about what Jaskier would taste like, if Geralt were to lick his sun-warmed skin right now, tuck his face into the crook of his neck. The thought makes heat pool in his belly, but he keeps his expression neutral and his eyes fixed on the road ahead of them.

"It doesn't get freezing cold yet," he says. "And I wouldn't let you freeze if it did." 

Jaskier makes a dismissive noise, muttering and grumbling under his breath as they keep walking. 

Geralt presses on for another hour, ignoring Jaskier's complaints as well as his tantalizing scent, before he leads them off the path, looking for a place to make camp. It's early still, but they don't have anywhere pressing to be, no rumors or rumbles about beasts or monsters in the area that he knows of, and it really is hot today. He doesn't want to push Jaskier past the limits of comfort.

By the time he finds a place that offers some shelter, shielded by trees and shrubs, and with a small stream nearby to refill their waterskins, Jaskier has damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead and his cheeks look a little pink. He sinks down onto a grassy patch as Geralt gets Roach settled, taking off his boots and stockings and then lying down, spreading his arms and legs apart. 

"I'm a disgusting, sweaty mess," he groans. 

"Hmm."

"I wish there was a proper river nearby. Or a lake. I would just get in and stay in the water until the sun sets," Jaskier continues. "Oh, can you imagine, Geralt? Cool water on your skin, soothing, fresh. I'm getting dizzy just thinking about it. Geralt, tell me, love, what are the symptoms of a heatstroke?"

"You're not suffering a heatstroke."

Jaskier huffs. "Oh, are you a healer now?"

"You just asked me about symptoms," Geralt points out and drops down onto the ground next to Jaskier. 

Jaskier groans and flips over onto his belly, resting his cheek on his arm. "How are you not _dying_ in your armor?" he asks, reaching out and rubbing his fingers over the bottom of Geralt's chestpiece. "Hmm. You should probably take it off, you know. So you don't overheat as well. One of us suffering so gravely is enough." 

Geralt slowly lets his eyes roam over Jaskier's sprawled out form, traces the way his chest narrows down into a small waist, lingers on the curve of his ass before moving down those long legs, wrapped in blue silk. "Yes, poor you," he agrees.

"The life of a bard is hard," Jaskier agrees. "The life of Geralt of Rivia's bard even more so."

"Hmm," Geralt hums. He reaches up for the first buckle of his armor and starts undoing it. Usually, Jaskier helps him get him out of it, but today Jaskier doesn't move, doesn't lift a finger. He just watches as Geralt pulls at clasps and buckles. When Geralt finally sets the last piece of his armor aside, Jaskier rests a hand on his thigh, thumb smoothing over leather before squeezing.

"You should probably take these off too. They can't be comfortable in this weather."

Geralt gives him a small, amused grin. "That so?"

"Yes," Jaskier says, nodding. "I believe you should just take all of your clothes off, darling. In fact, you should consider never wearing a stitch of clothing ever again. For the sake of your comfort."

"Not sure that would work well when fighting beasts."

Jaskier hums. "No. But perhaps you should give up witchering," he suggests, grinning cheekily. "Dedicate your life to being naked and keeping your bard happy." 

" _My bard_ is already spoiled enough." 

"Lies and slander!" Jaskier cries out. "I am far from spoiled. But I would deserve to be. But oh, I had to go dedicate my entire life to a brutish witcher who doesn't shower me in jewels and gold, doesn't worship at my feet and tell me how beautiful and lovely I am all day long."

Geralt grins lazily. "That what you want?"

"What if I say yes?"

"I will drop you off at some court. You can become a pampered bard as I'm sure you will have no trouble finding yourself a rich noble that will be swayed by your flatteries and cater to your whims and wishes," Geralt teases, and he doesn't mean a single word. He can't imagine letting Jaskier go, not anymore.

"And what would you do without me, my dear? Waste away from sadness and grief?"

"Surely not," Geralt says with an eye-roll. 

"Oh, but you would. Nobody to entertain you. Nobody to hold at night. Nobody to suck your magnificent cock."

The thought of Jaskier sucking him off makes heat pool in the pit of his stomach. Geralt sighs and lets his thighs fall open a little. Jaskier watches him, eyes dropping down to his crotch.

"Need some help?" he murmurs.

"You were dying of heatstroke just moments ago, yet you want to have sex now?"

"I have my priorities straight, dear. Sex with you is more important than my impending demise," Jaskier says and pushes himself up onto his knees. He rests his hands on Geralt's shoulders, sliding onto his lap, and then pushes him down. Geralt allows himself to sink down into the grass, the scent of crushed flowers sweet.

Jaskier grins. He puts his fingers against the neckline of Geralt's tunic, tugging at the laces there and brushing over exposed skin. "Tell me," he murmurs, "witcher. Do you want my mouth?"

Geralt lets out a small groan. Jaskier is perched on his stomach, ass molded perfectly against his crotch and that alone would be enough to make his cock fill, but the thought of Jaskier's mouth, hot and wet, around him sends a thrill through him. But it's not what he wants, not right now.

He slips his hands around Jaskier, palms his ass. "I'd rather taste you," he replies and gives Jaskier's cheeks a squeeze.

Jaskier's eyes flutter and his lips part, a blush spreading across his cheeks. "I'm a sweaty mess right now," he says and squirms a little. 

The words make Geralt's mouth water and he hums, gripping Jaskier more securely as he flips them over.

"Geralt!" Jaskier yelps. Geralt settles between Jaskier's spread legs and grins down at him, and the blush on Jaskier's cheeks is growing brighter, pinker.

Geralt leans down, noses at Jaskier's neck, taking in his scent, like he's imagined doing all day. His hands reach down between them, tugging open the laces of Jaskier's trousers.

He places a kiss to Jaskier's neck and then sits back so he can tug Jaskier's trousers down his legs and then make short work of his smallthings as well. Jaskier's cock is hard and flushed, curved up, and Geralt can smell Jaskier's musky, sweet scent a lot stronger without most of his clothes on.

"Turn around," he says, and Jaskier licks his lips.

"You really want…"

Geralt hums and Jaskier scrambles to turn around onto his belly, laying himself out for Geralt. The hair at his nape is sweat-damp, his chemise rucked up around his waist and his ass a perfect, pale curve. Geralt cups the back of Jaskier's thighs and guides his legs apart, pushing his left one up to the side, leaving Jaskier bare and exposed. Geralt sucks in a quiet breath and slips his hands up warm, smooth skin, palming Jaskier's cheeks and spreading them apart. 

Jaskier lets out a strangled, needy noise.

It's all the encouragement Geralt needs. He leans down, noses down Jaskier's crack and licks wetly over his hole. The scent and taste is heady, sweat-salty and musky, and Geralt groans in appreciation, squeezing Jaskier's cheeks as he circles his hole with his tongue, slowly licks into him.

He doesn't think he can ever get enough of this. The way Jaskier melts under him and lets him in, the sweet sounds he makes, the way he tastes, pure and ripe and _Jaskier_. He works his tongue in and out, gets Jaskier slick and open, listens to the wet noises as he fucks his tongue into him. 

He hums and squeezes Jaskier's cheeks, works his tongue in as deep as he can and feels Jaskier clench around him. His teeth graze Jaskier's rim as he pulls out and he lifts his head just enough to blow air across Jaskier's exposed hole, watching the muscles flutter and contract. Geralt groans and leans back down, laps over Jaskier's entrance, swirls his tongue around it and dips in just a little. Jaskier squirms, pushing his ass back with a quiet keen.

"Jaskier," Geralt murmurs, molton heat pooling in his belly. His cock is achingly hard, pressing against the confines of his leather trousers. He dips back down, nips at Jaskiers rim teasingly and thrusts his tongue back inside. Jaskier arches back with a moan, and Geralt doubles his efforts, sliding his tongue in and out, stopping to lick around Jaskier's hole every once in a while before pushing back into him, his hands kneading the firm muscles of Jaskier's ass. 

He can tell when Jaskier gets close, rocking his hips back needily, his scent spiking, mindless pleas and praise falling from his mouth. His body goes tense, hole contracting, and Geralt groans when Jaskier shudders and comes with a cry. The scent of his spend permeates the air, salty and bitter and strong. Geralt pulls back just a little, places a kiss and small licks over Jaskier's hole, gentling him through his orgasm. Under him, Jaskier finally goes boneless, his breathing ragged and wet. 

Geralt sits back, his hands still holding Jaskier open to his gaze. His hole is puffy and wet, glistening with Geralt's spit. Letting go of Jaskier with one hand, he palms himself and then pops the buttons of his leather trousers open. Pulling his cock out, he grips himself with a groan and starts stroking. He can still taste Jaskier on his tongue, can smell him sharply in the air around them, and pleasure races down his spine. He pants, strokes himself harder and comes with a low moan, his spend hitting Jaskier's ass and exposed hole, and Jaskier buries his face in his arm and moans. 

Satisfaction coils deep in Geralt's belly. He collapses forward, careful not to topple down onto Jaskier, and tucks himself up against his side. Burying his nose against the side of Jaskier's throat, he breathes him in and pulls him against him with one arm around Jaskier's waist, slipping a leg between Jaskier's still splayed ones. He smells like sweat and warm sunshine, contentment and sex. A rumble erupts from Geralt's chest.

Jaskier shifts and turns, lets out a small laugh.

"That was _filthy_ ," he murmurs, looking a little embarrassed even though Geralt knows Jaskier has very little shame when it comes to sex and pleasure. Geralt tips his head up and kisses him, humming against his mouth.

Jaskier kisses him back, just for a moment, and then pushes him away by the shoulder. "Darling. I love you and I love sex, but you taste awful."

Involuntarily, Geralt licks his lips. 

Jaskier wrinkles his nose, but he's grinning. "I should probably go clean up," he says. "I smell awful."

Geralt hooks his arm more securely around Jaskier, tugs him closer. "Later," he says, not wanting to let go and not wanting Jaskier to wash the scent off him. He likes him like this, smelling of sex and pleasure and himself and Geralt.

Jaskier huffs and nips at Geralt's collarbone, cuddling close despite the heat. "Filthy witcher," he murmurs, and it doesn't sound like he minds, so Geralt allows himself to relax and close his eyes, satisfaction humming through his bones.

  
  
*  
  


Geralt tries not to frown when Jaskier finally wiggles out of his arms and heads for the stream. The water barely hits him mid-calf and he cups his hands and splashes water over his body, before scrubbing himself clean with a cloth and bar of soap. Washing their combined scents off him. 

"Aren't you going to join me?" Jaskier calls. 

Geralt doesn't really want to, liking Jaskier's scent all over his skin, but he _is_ sticky and dirty and Jaskier will complain until he gives in and cleans up. He pushes himself up with a frown and starts peeling off his clothes. He reaches for his saddle bag, rummaging around the bottom for his soap and his hand closes around the familiar shape of the bar before he remembers Jaskier's claim that he'd run out. 

Padding over to the stream, he holds the soap up with a grin. "All out, huh?"

Jaskier looks caught for a moment, before he huffs. "Oh pff, toss that away and use mine," he says. "It smells a lot nicer."

"It's a waste of coin."

"Yes, well. Let me waste my coin on you," Jaskier replies and Geralt drops his soap onto a stone on the shoreline, not putting up any further protests because he prefers smelling like Jaskier.

He joins Jaskier in the water. Cleaning up takes a while in the shallow stream, but the view of Jaskier bending over to scoop up water more than makes up for it and Jaskier sends Geralt teasing grins, bending down more often than necessary. They pass the soap back and forth, scrubbing themselves clean.

They only pat themselves dry superficially and then let the last rays of sunshine and the residual heat of the day do the rest. Like Geralt predicted, it cools down noticeably as the sun starts to set and they get dressed. Geralt builds a fire while Jaskier fastens the ties of his trousers and then picks up one of Geralt's black shirts.

Geralt raises an eyebrow in silent question, but doesn't comment.

"Smells like you," Jaskier says with a shrug and pulls the garment over his head. Warmth pools in Geralt's stomach and he hums under his breath, trying to look like he doesn't care.

They have bread and cheese and jerky for dinner, sitting by the crackling fire, and night has fallen by the time they're both full. Jaskier licks the last crumbs from his fingers and then rubs his arms. "It's getting colder," he says and sits up on his knees, nudging one of Geralt's with his hand. "Warm me up."

Geralt grunts, but spreads his legs, bent at the knees, so Jaskier can sit between them. Jaskier makes himself comfortable between his thighs, his back pressed to Geralt's chest, and grabs Geralt's arms and wraps them around himself before Geralt can. 

"Hmm, better," he says with a small sigh, wiggling back against Geralt. He slides down a little, rests his head against Geralt's shoulder, his body lax. Geralt looks at his tipped back face, his features relaxed and eyes closed, and ducks his head down to nuzzle Jaskier's ear. He smells like lavender soap and Geralt, the shirt he's wearing clean enough but definitely not having been washed recently. 

Geralt smiles and bites back a content sigh, nosing the curve of Jaskier's cheek. "So spoiled," he teases again.

"Being cuddled by your witcher doesn't make you spoiled," Jaskier replies, eyes remaining shut and mouth turned up in a smile. 

"No? What does it make you then?"

Jaskier hums quietly. "Claimed."

Geralt pauses and then brushes his nose against Jaskier's cheek, presses his mouth against the slightly stubbled skin. "Claimed," he repeats, and there's a question in his voice.

Jaskier's smile broadens, eyes blinking open lazily. "All yours, wolf," he says. "I smell like you, don't I?"

Geralt freezes, just for a second, and then grunts dismissively. 

Jaskier shifts against him, reaching up with one hand and curling it around Geralt's neck. He gives him a small tug, pulling him down until Geralt's nose is pressed to the curve of his neck. Geralt tries not to sniff Jaskier. 

"Don't overthink it," Jaskier says quietly.

"'M not," Geralt denies, words mumbled and stiff, his whole body tense.

Jaskier huffs, amused. "Darling. _Breathe_ ," he says. 

Geralt tries not to, but then he exhales and takes in a breath, drawing in Jaskier's scent.

"There," Jaskier murmurs. "Better?"

Geralt feels like his head is spinning. He shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be acting more like an animal than a human, not around _Jaskier_ , who already puts up with too many of his idiosyncrasies. There's only so much people can take before it's too much, before they turn away.

"It's not normal," he grits, regret settling in his stomach.

Jaskier lets out a short, almost humorless laugh. "I have little concern for _normal_ , dear," he says, like the mere thought of normalcy is offensive. "Your sense of smell is stronger, I know that. It's fine."

Geralt remains silent, but he keeps his nose tucked into Jaskier's neck, keeps his arms curled around him.

"I make you use my soap, Geralt," Jaskier says quietly, gently, as if he's talking to a spooked horse. "It's not that different. I know you like my scent. And that you like it when I smell like you. That's not a bad thing. It's quite _nice_ actually."

"Hmm."

Jaskier twists a little, jostling Geralt off his shoulder. "You were worried I would care," he concludes.

Geralt doesn't meet his eyes. "There's only so much… _weirdness_ people can take."

"You're not weird. And I can take all of it," Jaskier says softly, cupping his face and rubbing his thumb over Geralt's cheek. "When it comes to you, there's never enough."

"You don't know all of it," Geralt grits out, leaning into Jaskier's touch without wanting to. "I get… possessive."

"How so?"

"Jaskier," Geralt mutters.

"No, tell me. Tell me, so I can tell you it's bullcrap and you can stop worrying."

Geralt draws back, feeling his gaze harden. "I want to cover you in my scent. I want everyone to be able to smell me on you, to know you're mine," he says, tone harsh, his gut twisting. He isn't sure who he's trying to drive away with his words, Jaskier or himself, but he feels something inside of him snap. "I want to _claim_ you, want you to be mine."

Jaskier doesn't pull away like Geralt thought, _feared_ , he would. He just smiles. "I am yours, you absolute oaf," he says, softly, kindly. "You think _that's_ going to scare me?"

Geralt locks his jaw and looks away. "Your scent."

"What about my scent, dear?"

There are so many things Geralt could say. It's heady and he's addicted and he wants to strip naked and roll around it, the way an animal might, and he likes Jaskier sweaty and ripe and desperate, likes burying his face where Jaskier smells the strongest, like licking and tasting and scenting him.

Jaskier smells like his and lust and comfort, like home. 

"Mate," Geralt says, bitter and resigned. "You smell like my _mate_."

Jaskier licks his lips and leans in, nose against Geralt's jaw and forehead against Geralt's temple. "I'm still waiting for you to say something that scares me, dearest," he whispers.

"Jask," Geralt says, tension easing. He turns his head, just a little, until his nose brushes skin. 

"I'm yours. And you're mine," Jaskier says and there's a possessiveness that colors his voice that Geralt has never heard before. "I knew it the moment I laid eyes on you. That I belonged to you, witcher."

" _That_ should scare you."

Jaskier laughs quietly. "You're a fool if you think that does anything but _thrill_ me," he says and shifts, curling up more in Geralt's arms. Geralt tightens his arms around him, tilts his head so his nose brushes against Jaskier's hair.

"Say it again," Jaskier murmurs.

Geralt doesn't have to ask what he means. "Mine," he says quietly and something in his chest settles, calms. "Mate."

Jaskier hums, sounding happy. He smells warm and content and Geralt lets out a pleased rumble and buries his nose deeper into his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Other places you can find me: [twitter](https://twitter.com/whispered_story) | [tumblr](https://whispered-story.tumblr.com/)


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